


New Romantics

by Phia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Fluff, M/M, New Year's Eve, Teen John, Teen Sherlock, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 21:30:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9143047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phia/pseuds/Phia
Summary: (23:45)“John.” Sherlock pulls at the collar of his own coat. He tugs until it hurts, then releases the fabric. “Don’t kiss someone at midnight.”John giggles. “Okay, I won’t.”Sherlock reaches for his collar again. “I mean, someone else. Don’t kiss someone else. Alright?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> The drinking would be underage because this story kind of takes place in the US. (Hence the American football.) I hope you enjoy this, even though it's a bit late.

**21:00**

 

“Happy New Year, Sherlock.” Mike raises a red cup to him, eyes already glazed. Sherlock stands in the doorway, gaze flying around the room. 

There’s teenagers draped over couches besides their strewn jackets. Cups litter the table, and laughter plays over the repetitive, high-pitched loops in a pop song. The speaker sits in the corner, a couple making out in front of it and muffling the sound.

Sherlock peers into the kitchen. Boys crowd around an island, laughing into each other’s shoulders. The scent of sweat and leather hovers over them, so strong it makes Sherlock dip his nose into his collar.

It’s the football team, absent of John’s grassy scent. _John should be here, John has to be here. Why isn’t John here?_

Sherlock shifts from one boot to the other. “Where’s John?”

The smile falls from Mike’s face. “Eh?” He looks behind him, then back to Sherlock. “John’s not here.” 

“I see.” Sherlock turns in his black coat, about to leave when—

“He’s coming in late. Trying to convince his mum to let him leave the house. But go ahead, leave. I mean, you didn’t even bring any—”

“Excuse me,” Sherlock says, pushing past Mike and making his way into the living room. John’s teammate has a few choice words for him, but he laughs them into his beer. So Sherlock feels like he’s fine.

 

 

* * *

 

**21:30**

 

“That could kill you.”

Hunter looks up from his cup, furrowing his brow at Sherlock. “Eh?”

_God, is that the only thing  a drunk person can say_? “You do take ADHD medication, right? Adderall?”

Hunter nods. It takes over five seconds. The drink’s already got him, pawed pink into his cheeks. “Yeah. So?”

“Too much alcohol and the medication could cause you to misjudge your alcohol intake." Sherlock looks down at his nails. "This would heighten your heart rate and the later possibility of your fatality.” 

Hunter rolls his eyes, moving his hand to slosh his beer. “English, please?” But he peels from from the counter he’d been leaning against, dumping his drink in the sink.

The quarterback sets the cup on the island. “John woulda told me that if he were here.”

Sherlock remembers picking John up from his Health elective, walking him to the courtyard. Their arms would brush and John would beam up at him when it happened.

But that was a time where red, orange, and yellow leaves would fall around them. Where one would get caught in John’s hood, and Sherlock would pluck it from the fabric, showing it to John. And he’d laugh. Even though it wasn’t funny, he’d laugh.

“Yes, he would’ve.” Sherlock sighs.  Maybe  it’s his fault that John isn’t here.  Maybe  he doesn’t want to be here, surrounded by kissing couples. Sherlock can understand that.

 

* * *

 

**22:00**

 

He knows that John still loves him. He knows from the glances across the canteen, blue-gray eyes and the way they linger. He knows because John frequents the bathroom near his locker, even though one is closer to his. He knows.

He says this to the kitchen clock, answering the glare of its plastic, circular shell. He says this to the empty cups to the table. He says this, in his mind, to John’s teammates. They stream through the kitchen, some reaching to pat his shoulder. _They think they know but they don’t. John will be here, right?_

He glances at the time again. _I should go. There isn't a reason for me to be here._

 

* * *

 

**22:30**

 

Mike is turning on the television. But no one’s turned down the music, so a woman croons over the sound of fireworks. The noises makes Sherlock’s fingers curl into fists. He jams them into his pockets, hoping that it looks casual more than murderous.

“John’s  probably  not coming,” he says. He leans against the wall near the television, feels its vibrations through the walls. Mike is sitting on the couch, flipping through channels with the remote. A bowl of chips and salsa sits on the coffee table before him. It would look more appetizing if Sherlock ate more and if a wide receiver hadn’t spit in it.

“I don’t know,” Mike replies, and at least he’s being honest.

Sherlock wishes that John hadn’t convinced him to stop smoking. (“ _I won’t kiss you with the taste of tobacco in your mouth_.”)

This would be a perfect time to step outside, light a cigarette and pin his gaze to the moon. Look busy, like he's not waiting for someone who won't show.

 

* * *

 

**23:00**

 

Mike opens his front door and there stands John, the strap of his sports bag over his chest. The sight of him makes Sherlock feel cold and hot at the same time.

“Johnny! You’re here!" Mike peers at the bag through bleary eyes. "And staying?”

“It was the only way I could get my mum to let me show up.” John runs fingers over the strap. He looks into the room and finally catches Sherlock’s gaze.

He leaves the doorway to step across the floorboards, closer to where Sherlock’s curled up to the side of the couch.

“Hi,” Sherlock says. He’s clutching onto a can of root beer in one hand. He offers it up to John, who tilts his head at the gesture.

“Ah, no thanks.” But he offers a smile.

_He’s smiled but refused the indirect contact of our saliva. Interesting_ , Sherlock observes.

“Mind if I sit next to you?” John waves at the couch.

Sherlock shakes his head. Every other seat  is taken  up by someone else, anyway. John’s teammates like him, but not enough to sit next to him, even intoxicated. 

John steps between Sherlock's knees and the coffee table, plopping down in the cushion. He arranges his bag in his lap and looks at the television. A woman interviews another, nothing interesting, so Sherlock feels that he can interrupt.

“How are you?”

John turns his head to look at him, then smiles enough to show teeth. “I’m okay, how are you?”

“I miss you,” Sherlock blurts. That's _a bit not good_ , but nothing can be worse than coming here to see his ex-boyfriend.

The smile makes a reappearance. “Oh, God.”

“John—”

“Sherlock, I already told you.” John perches one foot, then another, on the edge of the coffee table. He doesn’t smell much like grass anymore, but Sherlock can see the grass stains on his sneakers. “Our relationship needs some changes before we can get back together.”

Sherlock squeezes around the root beer can. “So there is a chance. Because you said we needed at least a month apart, and it's already been thirty days.”

“Oh.” John throws his shoulders back, resting his head on the top of the couch. “Oh, God.”

 

* * *

 

**23:30**

 

“And I promise that when I cheer for your teammates, I won’t insult their IQs as a way of encouraging them.”

“Why not?” John asks. “I quite liked that. Even encouraged me to run a  little  faster.” 

“Really?” Sherlock sits up, upsetting the empty root beer can on the coffee table. It topples, but it's empty. No harm done to Mike Stamford.

“No.” John takes another swig of beer: from a bottle, not even a cup. Sherlock’s sure there’s not even a clean cup in this place, anyway.

Sherlock sags in his seat. “I’m sorry, John.”

John sets the bottle in his lap, between his thighs. “I know, Sherlock. Things are the same. It’s only been a month.”

“So our separation hasn’t hurt you?”

“Didn’t say that, now did I, genius?”

“So it did,” Sherlock says, pointing at the ceiling.

“Sherlock.” John sighs, tracing one finger over the rim of the bottle. Sherlock tries not to look down at it. Either John’s not aware of the suggestiveness of the position, or he doesn’t care.

Sherlock’s missed that too, the way John would fit his fingers around—

“Stop worrying about this, okay? Let’s  just  have a party and enjoy New Year’s.”

Sherlock frowns. “I only came here for you, John.”

“I know. I’m touched.” John's free hand comes up to rest over his heart.

“John,  really.”  

“I am!” John laughs. His hand falls back into his lap. “I know you hate our entire damn school. I know you hate my team, even though you try to hide it. I mean, sometimes you don’t, but ... regardless.” He shrugs. “Just  because we’re not together doesn’t mean that my feelings have changed.”

Sherlock looks down at his lap. “Mine either, John.”

John exhales through his nose. It’s  almost  domestic, the two sitting together on the couch and the party raging around them.

“So,” Sherlock says. “The tradition is to kiss someone at midnight on New Year’s Day.”

John is smiling. “I’m aware of this.” He raises the bottle to his lips and knocks it back.

“Are you going to kiss someone?”

John’s still drinking, but his brow raises.

“I’m not saying you should. But you’re one for holiday tradition.”

John slips the bottle from his lips and shoves it between his thighs again. “Yes.” 

_Is he thinking about the Valentine’s Day roses?_

Sherlock sneaks a peek at him. He’s watching the television with half-lidded eyes, smiling at a cat commercial.

_Yes, he is._

 

* * *

  

**23:45**

 

“John.” Sherlock pulls at the collar of his own coat. He tugs until it hurts, then releases the fabric. “Don’t kiss someone at midnight.”

John giggles. “Okay, I won’t.”

Sherlock reaches for his collar again. “I mean, someone else. Don’t kiss someone else. Alright?”

 

* * *

 

**23:55**

 

“ _John_.” Sherlock turns to him with wide eyes. 

“Eh?”

“It’s five minutes before the ball drops, and you haven’t found someone to kiss yet.”

John blinks. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” 

 

* * *

 

**23:59**

 

**(5)**

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock rasps.

 

**(4)**

 

John reaches up, curls a hand around his jaw.

 

**(3)**

“We’ll talk through it  soon,” John says.

 

**(2)**  

He smiles. “Didn’t I tell you not to worry?”

 

* * *

 

**24:01**

 

The kiss is Sherlock’s first in a month, warm and chapped and welcome.

He’s awaiting a  very  happy new year.


End file.
